Master of None
by Patchwork Poltergeist
Summary: If anyone asks, you aren't my cat


_"Jack of all trades, Master of none,  
__Though ofttimes better than master of one"_

Look here.

If anyone asks, you are not my cat.

Should we both be outside in the garden, should any gawking passersby pause in their jogging or whatever frivolities entertain them to glance in the mayor's yard, you are not to acknowledge me. You are to ignore me completely, as I shall do in turn. Do not look in my direction, do not mewl for attention, do not brush against my heals, do not even come within three feet of me, lest you earn yourself a night outside in the rain. I do not want to leave you outside in the rain with the dogs and worms, but if it must come to that, make no mistake, I will do so without delay.

I cannot have any foul ups, not from you, not from anyone.

When I leave these doors, no longer am I simply Vlad, but I am Masters, Mayor of Amity Park, always to be referred to by last names, never the first. Beyond this lawn, I am a king among paupers, a man of the people. So you must understand why I cannot be seen in your company. There are over two thousand people out there in Amity Park, that over four thousand eyes out there, four thousand watchful, fickle eyes that must never witness our camaraderie.

There tends to be a certain stigma on those who keep cats. Especially men. Especially on singles. Especially on single men who keep cats but are otherwise alone. On those who are lonely.

(Not that _I'm_ lonely, of course.

That's just the stigma, you understand. Prejudice. Completely unwarranted.)

Being lonely in itself isn't really such a bad thing in the eyes of the masses, but to rely solely on a cat, a creature not known for its loyalty or love, to substitute for human companionship is something else altogether. If a man relishes in the sole company of a cat, he has stepped over the line from simply lonely to simply pathetic.

It's well known that men who keep cats are friendless. Men who keep cats are joyless. Men who keep cats are the odd ones, the quiet ones, the ones that wind up malcontent. Men who keep cats border on the brink of madness, if they've not already succumbed to it completely. Men so unstable in their emotions are not men to be trusted.

Men who keep cats are not the ones who confidently wave at the crowds smiling dashingly confident smiles. Nor are they the ones who have the air of decorum one expects a Mayor to have. Men who keep cats are not men of power of respect

I cannot, _must_ not, be one of those men.

You understand, don't you?

Besides, the last thing people see in a cat is reliability. They don't see loyalty, faith, friendliness, or love in the eyes of a cat. No, they see something detached, cunning, and fickle. Something that will offer its friendship in return for a warm lap, a full stomach, or a bit of amusement. A cat only loves you so long as there is something in it for the cat. Moreover, people, being people, tend to attach mannerisms of a pet to that of its keeper.

I couldn't be trusted if they knew. At least, not as much. Or worse, I would be pitied. Worse still, I would be laughed at. Mocked. Made a fool of.

I know for certain one particular citizen of this wretched town would love nothing more than to wave the discovery of our companionship in my face. He would make sure to milk it for all it was worth, the sadist. He would use it as incontestable proof of my so-called madness. He would use it as proof he was right. For him to be right gives him power over me, which I will not let happen. Not now. Not ever.

As long as he, so long as everyone in this blasted, accursed town remain in the dark as to your ownership, Maddie my status is untouched. I remain Vlad Masters, master of all he surveys. A man to be trusted, respected, honored, feared, obeyed.

A man without a cat.

Now, do not misunderstand me, dearest Maddie, that our hidden friendship bears any resentment or embarrassment of you on my part. I do enjoy our time together greatly. Especially at night when there is little work left to be done. After the mayor's aides and accountants and assistants have gone home, when the lab's lights downstairs shut off, when I must pause in my brilliant planning, but most of all, when I must return home after defeat (though that is a rare occurrence of course), it's then I've noticed that sometimes… sometimes, the manor begins to… change.

A metamorphosis, if you will.

Not too long after the sun goes down the long halls become longer than they ought to be, the hanging artwork on the walls seem to develop a sinister presence, and the long crimson carpet almost seems to glow like blood in the starlight. Outside the wind begins to scream, naked trees outside my windows bang violently against the panes, it's as if they might break at any given moment. The many headlights of passing cars illuminate the numerous windows of the manor and make them shine terribly like the eyes of some ghostly demon. (And I ought to know, I've met my share of ghostly demons in my time.) The manor begins to creak, moan, and whine, as if in pain or mourning, which I know ought not to trouble me, since many old houses makes such noise, but what troubles me about that is this isn't an old house. Not in the least.

Worst of all is the parlor.

Ironically, in the daylight, or on any other normal work night, that room is my favorite room in the entire manor. I make a point of showing the parlor off to everyone that comes by, if I can. It really is a marvel in architecture and taste, if I do say so myself. The trophies gleaming proudly atop the mantle in the light, each one a testament to my success; the grand oil paintings hanging on the walls showcase my superb taste and intellect; the hanging chandelier (circa 1692) is an original masterpiece of French artisans, the only one of it's kind made from the finest European crystal, and the marble floors make the simply the most _excellent_ sound when walked upon. However, I am particularly fond of the fireplace. It is of an antique Italian design made from granite and onyx, wide in girth, and framed by a pair of delightful stone gargoyles hanging adjacent from the corners of the hearth. The fire that warmly crackles across the wood adds the loveliest touch of atmosphere to the parlor. You cannot imagine the compliments I've gotten over it.

Oh, but as the sun sets, my beloved parlor also undergoes the metamorphosis. How it does so change completely. The impressive items in my collection no longer glisten in the lights, but rather pull in shadows around them. They suddenly seem more imitation than impressive and the waves of pride they normally give off are strangely absent. Indeed, despite my wide collection, the room seems so very…vacant. Sitting in my armchair, watching the parlor darken and change, I do not feel the fear or sadness or dread or stiffness as I do from other parts of the house. It's worse.

Instead, oh far worse instead, I don't feel anything at all. My heart is emptier than the whole of the manor, emptier than my embrace. Both home and heart have been barren for longer than I care to recall, and Maddie I can assure you there is nothing, nothing, _nothing_ in all of this world or the next to rival that terrible emptiness except that awful parlor in the dark.

Even the fire looses its warmth, though it still shines brightly enough for the chandelier to catch the light from it. I can't say I'm very fond of the way it does that, catching the firelight the way it does. Looking at it from down here the crystal almost looks like knives ready to drop… like the Sword of Damocles multiplied. The flame's familiar comforting crackle of the embers becomes a callous cackle, harsh and unforgiving. It takes cruel mirth from Masters, who commands a town but has no reign over his own house. In the quiet dark the cackling, crackling flames laughs and laughs.

No, I do not enjoy my time along in this manor at all.

So you see, dearest Maddie, I really do appreciate our time together more than you may ever know. Really, being a cat and all, I doubt you've understood any of what I have told you. I wonder why I even bother. Even if you do understand my words, it's doubtless you care little for them, if at all.

Perhaps I am indeed as mad as young Daniel claims me to be.

Ha. Look at me, Maddie. Behold Vlad Masters, mayor of Amity Park and the mad rambler who spills his guts to cats. Ridiculous

Even so, I am glad for your accompanying this mad mayor now in the wee hours of the night. I take comfort in the warmth of your white body on my lap to replace the heat of the flames; the purr from your chest drowns out that hideous fire's cackle. I enjoy watching the soft rise and fall of your small ribs as you breathe instead of watching the shadows dance along empty corridors. I love the soft sound of your paw steps as you shadow me through the manor, even if you are constantly underfoot.

I love your presence, Maddie.

You keep the bleakness at bay.

Even if you do not understand, even if you are not listening, even if you are only in it for the tuna and caviar, I am still grateful. You're still with me all the same. As long as you stay with me, out of Amity's eyes, I will be grateful.

Of course, you will eventually leave me. That's inevitable. No one stays with me for very long. However, that's a long time off, I think.

For the moment, you are here, in my lap, in the dark, with me. Even though your companionship is probably a farce, I can always imagine, can't I?

After all, we both know I am no more a master of Maddie the feline than I am of Maddie the Fenton.

Still.

A man can still hope, still dream. A man can still revel in a fantasy, a wish that will never come true.

A man can still pretend.

Can't he Maddie?


End file.
